


Running Up That Hill

by levitatethis



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-02
Updated: 2010-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-10 22:02:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Oz, Toby has had to figure out who he really is. He realizes Chris knows that better than anyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running Up That Hill

_“There’s always drinks and dancing in the rubble  
I’m spinning and you’re spinning  
The world’s spinning and we’re laughing  
And I’m charming, the devil’s charming  
And we’re ruined but we’re still building  
And I’m selling and you’re counting  
The world’s stopping but we keep going  
And we’re ruthless and we’re cunning  
And I’m heir to it all_

_Days like these you’ve gotta find it some other way  
It’s all or nothing, baby_

_Avalanche, start inside of me  
Avalanche, down through the trees  
Avalanche, start inside of me  
Avalanche, hell down through the trees”_   
**-Matthew Good, ** _ **Avalanche** _

  
For Toby, regrets are a life sentence.

Piled high, one atop the other, they present an imposing, formidable force not easily quelled. They demand more strength than he ever thinks he can muster to push ahead, up the ever exhaustive hill looming over him. His steps are slow (precise), but shaky (cautious) as he pushes forth, one shoulder pressed painfully against the rock made up of mistakes and second guesses.

Toby falls almost as often as he gains an inch. His bloodied, battered and bruised knees and aching joints, body drenched in the sweat of perseverance, are proof of his struggles—yet still he goes. He sucks in a deep breath, sets his focus in one direction, wills himself to _see_ the future, then shoves the past with all his might.

Every time seems an endless exercise in futility; such is the consequence of few distractions from the very things that placed him in this hole for this time in his life. Truth be told, Toby has had his moments of wanting to throw in the towel. He knows how easy it would be to give up, let the cards fall where they may. When he lets that delightful thought spin around his brain he reminds himself that that’s what made him a prag in the first place. And since he’s not interested in going down that road again, he deliberates on the power of having an honest to goodness purpose.

Up the hill he goes.

It’s worth it for the split second he makes it to the top and can step away from the mound of collected problems, when he can stumble with contentment and gaze at the wide open world just waiting for him. In those seconds he’s absolutely free; a billion particles unbound and exploding into the universe.

There’s a rumble before he knows it and then that stupid, goddamn rock of fucking disappointments is rolling back down the hill at breakneck speed.

There once was a time when Toby would try to chase it in the hopes of stopping it before it got to the bottom. Now he knows better.

Letting out a resigned sigh he begins the slow stroll down.

  
************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
Not all regrets are created equal. Some are worse than others, some trickle the chill of a nightmare up Toby’s back while others linger in his healed bones and mended heart.

Some…

Choosing the bitter sting of the bottle over Genevieve and his kids, succumbing to its succubus flirtations and tossing love, family, his job and self-respect into the garbage.

Relying on the ease of being a coddled, privileged prick rather than taking a chance and stepping out on his own.

Being too fucking naïve and trusting that the bad things in the world would never really touch him, rather skip by and head for the next unfortunate soul; thinking hitting Kathy Rockwell was the bottom, the ultimate wake up call, when in fact he had just scratched the surface.

Choosing the evil of two evils—Adebesi would have ripped his body apart, no doubt, but Schillinger mutilated his soul and psychologically, physically raped his twisted form inside and out—and giving in before he could lick his lips and mutter, “Another round.”

He accepted humiliation in place of self-worth and self-restraint; the wondrous haze of a drug induced coma over the sharp-eyed angles and lines of Oz’s hardnosed reality. He bared himself for the unmerciful chants of the crowd to buy himself another day of trying not to care.

He chose being numb over feeling pain.

He wonders what would have happened if he had lashed out at Schillinger sooner rather than later. He wonders if things would have been different if he hadn’t presented himself as such a country club douche to the cunt judge who threw the harshest sentence she could salivate over at him. He considers the difference between drinking socially versus self-medication. He thinks about marrying for Leave It To Beaver love and family expectations rather than, ‘can’t live without you in my life,’ passion.

Those are the bad ones. But there are others and this is where it gets a little strange and whole lot more interesting, because they’re not so much regrets as off kilter revelations.

Said (unintentionally) connects the dots and Toby’s brain sparks neuron connections of enlightenment.

“Every choice is a test from Allah, Tobias. There are no absolutes, but some decisions are better than others. You must look inside yourself to truly understand why you’ve done the things you have and how each turn led to the next, eventually bringing you here. Then you have to ask yourself—is this where I want to be?”

On paper the answer seems obvious. Reality is not so simplistic.

“You don’t want me to answer yes.”

“I am not here to judge you.”

“But God is, right?”

“I believe Allah sees our intentions.”

“That’s what I’m worried about, Said.”

“…that your intentions cast doubt on your character?”

“That I know _exactly_ what my intentions say about me and I’m fine with that. I am not the man I used to be. This…_this_ is me.”

Intentions tell tales—they say he is capable of murder (may even revel in it) if necessary, they whisper he wanted to take Chris to the brink of death without pushing him over, they chortle at the fine line he trembles on between doting absentee dad and increasingly versed convict.

From out of a shit filled sewer he has emerged like a damn phoenix from the ashes. Burn baby burn.

A demon on one shoulder and an angel on the other—turns out they’re friends, lovers, soul mates.

Bound in blood.

  
************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
“All’s fair in love and war, Toby. No matter how unfair it is; the facts don’t change. Out there everything seems black and white. We live in the gray here.”

…Chris knows…

The man Toby used to be—smart, but weak—did not shrivel up and die. He gave birth to the man who stares back at him in the mirror—the man who _has_ committed one murder (retribution) and been complicit in others, the man who loves so hard it hurts, the man who has learned to (somewhat) skillfully walk the periphery and maneuver the unsafe passage between factions without one of his own; fighting with determined grit, a wicked tongue, a razor sharp mind and a hint of reckless abandonment.

Toby has never been as free, scared, _understood_ as he has in Chris’ eyes. The good (so good), the bad (devastating)—and Toby doesn’t know how to explain falling in love with Chris and how it’s nothing like Hallmark card declarations overdosing on sentiment. He cannot form a coherent analytical thought that explains the extremes of what living has become.

Toby wants to fuck hard and kiss softly, drown in heated whispers against his skin about wayward childhoods and stuffy social gatherings as they lie folded with each other in the bottom bunk. He loves the sensation of watchful (one half caring, one half possessive) eyes taking stock of his movements, making sure no one tries to mess with him. Then there’s the fighting—he wants to scream until his throat is hoarse, throw punches that bloody and bruise his fists, spit in Chris’ face when Chris is smirking condescension down at him. With everything, at the end of it all he wants to make forever out of Chris moving in and out of him, refusing to break their gaze while uttering, “Toby…Toby…Toby…” reverently against his lips.

When Toby’s Lucifer comes outs to play, Chris’ Satan grins conspiratorially.

And when Toby is one breath away from breaking under the pressure, (Saint) Chris (topher) is the comforting arm around his weary traveler’s shoulders, soothing his frayed nerves and acting as his protective armor against all the monsters who lurk under the bed. Toby rests his head against Chris’ chest and falls under the hypnotic rhythm of Chris’ hand grasping his bicep (fingers squeezing) and the quiet, “Shhhh, it’s gonna be okay,” spoken with promise.

Said’s belief in Toby is righteously driven and though he appreciates the honour of the sentiment, although a part of him strives to earn it, he knows it is Chris who _sees_ him, every accolade and flaw, and loves all of him all the same.

Living up to imperfection marks him from sunrise to sunset and the dark in between behind locked doors. It’s inescapable and acceptance shifts the weight from his shoulders.

Toby knows he is not alone.

  
************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
Toby knows Chris is parked at a table with O’Reily (the two of them playing chess while Cyril smiles over a comic book) in the quad. Without pinning Chris with a direct gaze, Toby is well aware of where he is and he can feel the burn of Chris’ eyes on him as he walks from the shower area to their pod. He’s used to Chris’ (not always so obvious) undivided attention. But this gaze has a question at the end.

The last few days have been tense with worrying news from Toby’s parents about Holly being ill—sick enough she was taken to the hospital where she had an emergency appendectomy. Away from her and unable to do anything but feel ineffectual, Toby retreated behind harsh rebukes, distracted thoughts, the inability to desire anything intimate lest his skin crawl with anxiety and a meaning laden beard.

Good news from home resulted in lifted spirits and Toby finally taking a blade to his face. Chris, of course, notices—guesses correctly what the sudden emergence of smooth skin means—a fact hit home when he _doesn’t_ follow Toby into their pod. Final count is an hour or so away. Until then Toby has a letter to read and Chris has a game to finish. Anticipation (delayed gratification) scratches a notch on the wall.

It would help if Toby could concentrate on the blurry words on the page, but being without Chris’ touch (keeping him at bay so that even a brush of Chris’ fingertips across his neck has been fleeting rather than a languid invitation) has proven detrimental to Toby’s mental health. His skin is itching for Chris. He spares himself an upward glance, enough to see Chris (contemplating a chess move) instinctively tilt his head in Toby’s direction. Chris needs touch like he needs food. Right now he’s a starving man, which makes him at once amorous _and_ edgy. There _will_ be marks.

When count does roll around not a word is spoken between them. They stand next to each other, a millimeter between providing a buffer neither pushes across, staring straight ahead. Toby’s mind is a conundrum—needing Chris—Holly’s smiling, _healthy_ face—needing Chris—wanting to celebrate life. It’s not lost on him he wants to do this in a place that steals that very thing from them minute-by-minute, that he can only do it with the person who almost ripped his soul to shreds.

It doesn’t make sense. It’s not supposed to.

Back in their pod, the door locking them in, they silently appraise each other with flitting glances and quick checks for approaching hacks. Chris lies down on this bunk with a magazine and Toby leans forward against the plexiglass door, his right arm above his head. Time drags its feet to lights out and when the mechanical click drenches Em City in darkness, Chris slows down his page flipping but doesn’t put it down. This is Toby’s call, his initiative to take, his demons to exorcise, his comfort to seek.

Splashing cold water on his face first, Toby takes in Chris’ relaxed reflection in the mirror for a few seconds then turns around and folds his arms across his chest, leaning back against the sink. A long, drawn out pause, filled only with their breathing and the increasingly louder sound of turning pages, pounds Toby’s heart. Eventually Chris tosses the magazine to the floor and gets up. His expression is flat, his attention barely settling on Toby, but the tiny upward tug at the corner of his lips is his subtle acquiescence.

Toby stays where he is when Chris reaches over his shoulder for his toothbrush and toothpaste. He waits while Chris goes through his nightly ritual of bushing his teeth, only heeding Toby’s impeding presence with the occasional glance, shift of his feet, extended reach over Toby’s shoulder. During this time Toby takes the opportunity to get his long withheld sensory fill of Chris so close, ready and willing.

He closes his eyes for a flurry of quick seconds and inhales the all too familiar musky scent (enhanced by the pungent sweat of an afternoon workout and the light glaze of some non-descript soap) of Chris ‘fucking’ Keller, and unconsciously licks his lips. A soft, almost missed, groan escapes Chris’ lips and Toby’s eyes fly open. The unreadable expression is still in place on Chris’ lips, but the heat between their bodies seems to have risen one hundred degrees. Chris makes a casual show of starting to turn away prompting Toby to grab him and push them both toward the relative darkness at the back of the pod.

Chris’ body hitting the wall elicits a strong, if appreciative, “Easy,” then Toby is claiming his mouth for his own and raking his hands up Chris’ chest, under his white cotton vest. Anytime they go too long without each other, the need turns the same—urgent, desperate, insistent. Chris cups Toby’s ass and pulls him closer, thrusting up at the same time.

A moan and a shudder spill between them and the sensation of Chris already half hard has Toby thinking, _you been saving this for me?_

They kiss hard and deep, running their tongues along each other and at some point Toby remembers he is supposed to breathe. It’s a flashing wake up call. After being stuck in a holding pattern of uselessness lately, after feeling powerless as his daughter struggled beyond his grasp, his imagination running wild at possibly losing another person and never getting the chance to tell her again how much he loves her—no more bedtime stories or drawings in the visitors room, no more invisible cloak of innocence to drape himself in and pretend for an hour once a week that he’s not a complete fuck up because of his kids brilliance—he is taken over by the undeniable need to assert some semblance of control before handing it over. He’s counting on Chris to understand.

Breaking the kiss, Toby presses their chests together (momentarily revelling in Chris’ panting state) and whispers with lust laden authority, “Suck me off.”

He feels Chris freeze for a split second, expects it. Chris may enjoy the power play between them, but he has his own skeletons lurking in neo-Nazi regalia in locked closets that go bump in the night. Unlike Toby, however, Chris has a far better sense of self—what he is willing and unwilling to do, why, and with whom—and his continuous existence as Toby manoeuvres him to change their positions is not as strong as it could be. They’re both well aware Chris could snap Toby’s neck in a heartbeat, even if Toby put up a respectable fight. But Toby needs this and in the convoluted quest for power, Chris has it to give.

“What’s that, Toby?” Chris growls, making Toby put a little more effort into pushing him away from the wall.

Toby narrows his eyes, rests his own back against the wall and pulls Chris’ vest up over his head, tossing it to the floor. Cupping both hands around Chris’ neck and pressing his nails firmly into the skin, Toby hisses, “Your mouth. My cock. Now.”

Speaking dirty does not come naturally to Toby. Chris, on the other hand, is fluent. Chris’ words always go right to Toby’s groin, pooling heat and unquenchable desire. Those same words rolling off of Toby’s tongue surely sound stilted and hysterically lame. In this moment, however, they are the only ones that feel right. Chris’ hooded eyes shout his agreement.

When Toby senses Chris move in for a kiss, he tightens his grip on his neck, holding him in place. Chris glowers, then flashes a fast grin before pushing through Toby’s defences, ignoring the certainly painful hold on him, and places a bruising kiss on his lips. Even when Chris shifts control, he never relinquishes it completely. Toby is left breathless by the time Chris sinks to his knees, pulling down Toby’s boxers in the process.

His legs nearly buckling from the moist heat which suddenly surrounds his cock, Toby gazes down as Chris works the length, changing up between slow and drown out strokes with his tongue, then quick ones. It’s not so much that Chris is a pro at giving blow jobs (he is), but that he knows Toby’s body so intimately. He’s natural and precise, bringing Toby to the edge then pulling back at the last minute. He’s the fucking pied piper and he’s playing Toby’s song, pitch perfect.

A light sheen dampens Toby’s body, sticking his shirt to his back, and he rolls back his head and closes his eyes as his blood rushes at two hundred miles per hour and the hairs on his skin stand to attention. He wants to cry for sweet release and thrust to exorcise remaining demons, but he’s mindful enough to not push too far, to not take advantage and risk tainting what Chris is giving him. Instead Toby moves his hands from Chris’ head and fists them at his side against the wall, slamming them against the concrete in delicious frustration.

Then the heat and suction are gone and Toby is left temporarily bewildered on the precarious edge. Dropping his gaze he meets Chris’ unblinking blue eyes.

“Wh—what?” Toby manages to stutter.

Chris waits a moment. “Let go, Toby.”

Toby narrows his eyes inquisitively. Chris rubs his left hand over his own hard cock tenting in his boxers and slides his right one up Toby’s chest, stopping when his palm is over Toby’s heart.

“Let go,” Chris repeats.

It’s an order. An offer.

Chris slides Toby’s dick back into his mouth and begins again to work up and down his cock. Toby groans and grabs a hold of the hand Chris has on his chest, intertwining their fingers. He moves his other hand to rest gently on Chris’ head. After a few seconds, Toby tightens his grip on Chris’ head and begins to thrust forward, fucking Chris’ mouth while muttering at the sensory overload threatening to short circuit body. Any concerns he may have at hurting Chris are forgotten as Chris takes everything Toby gives him, digging his own hands into either side of Toby’s hips and refusing to give up one inch of Toby’s self appointed penance.

Cresting towards the final tumbling wave, each of Toby’s thrusts is punctuated by a slight slip of his body down the wall, his own being ready to explode and fall apart. With a guttural moan, Toby comes hard and would fall to the floor if not for Chris holding him steady, sucking him completely, then standing up and wrapping his arms around him.

Hug first—it speaks of protection and safety and Toby nuzzles his nose against Chris’ neck, muffling an otherwise silent sob. Kiss second—their sacrificial bonding, life tripping across their lips, the promise of forever and love. Love. Toby feels Chris’ cock, still hard, digging against his body and pulls back to stare into liquid blue.

“Fuck me,” Toby whispers against his lips.

Swiftly Chris helps him remove his shirt, guiding them both to the bunks. Chris lays him along the bottom one and follows suit. Toby uses his feet to help Chris push down the waistband of his boxers; then curls his legs around Chris’ hips, effectively fitting their bodies together. Their eyes lock. Chris licks at Toby’s bottom lip and draws him into the kind of kiss that renders time obsolete. Chris shifts his hips and Toby rolls his own upwards compliantly. With a grin, Chris takes his time turning Toby’s inside out.

Afterwards, in the wake of their sticky mess—Toby staring up at Chris and rubbing his index finger along Chris’ lips, Chris propped up on one elbow, mindlessly tracing the ridge of Toby’s collarbone—Toby has never felt more certain of the man he’s become or the man he has unexpectedly come to love. They fit, sharp, jagged edge and all. So much of what Toby once thought to be true has been undone entirely in Oz. The jaded, yet wondrous at times, truth leaves little room for retreads and misguided nostalgia. The person who sees him is, in himself, a questionable enigma walking the wrong side of the tracks on the outside and a con man’s checkmate on the inside. Toby shouldn’t believe a word out of Chris’ mouth except the ones that matter.

_I love you._

“You okay?” Chris asks with a genuine hint of concern in his voice as he playfully bites the tip of Toby’s finger

Toby shoots him a half smile. “I am now.”

“Careful, you’re getting sentimental…she’s strong. Like you.”

“I wish I had your certainty. She’s so much more than I’ll ever be.”

“Hey, watch it. You’re talking about the man I love.”

“Now who’s being sentimental?”

A sharp rap against the plexiglass breaks their reverie and they see a clearly annoyed Murphy peering in at them.

“This better not be what it looks like,” Murphy warns them. “There are two beds for a reason. Either use them or one of you can visit the hole for the night.”

Irritation flashes across Chris’ face as he rolls his eyes, but he winks at Toby and gets up for the bunk, stark naked, and grins out the front of the pod. It’s enough to distract Murphy while Toby retrieves his boxers and hops up on the top bunk. Murphy walks away and Toby listens as Chris slides down into his bed. After a minute Toby drops his arm off the side of the bunk, letting it hang loosely. A few seconds later, Chris grabs a hold of his hand.

It’s the last thing Toby is conscious of before he falls asleep.

  
************ ********** ********** ********** ************

Toby listens with amusement to Busmalis, his cafeteria tray pushed aside, emphatically reading out loud the first draft of his letter to Miss Sally. Rebadow keeps interjecting with suggestions, meaning Busmalis’ face keeps going from wide-eyed excitement to brow furrowing consideration.

On Rebadow’s other side is Cyril picking at his food with a frustrated and grossed out look in his eyes. His childlike mental state (almost forgotten when he is hitting someone with the brute strength he forgets he has) twinges a familiar parental feeling in Toby that no restricted visits and drab, gray walls can destroy. Toby’s seen this look before in Gary’s eyes and for a moment his father-like side, no longer focused on the love letter to a distant buxom television host or Chris slowly peeling an orange to his right (casual indifference on display, but sitting a little _too close_ to Toby to be anything other than an intimate statement for all to see), he tries to catch Cyril’s attention.

“Don’t like the food?” He jokes since the food really isn’t that good—funny though how one can acclimate taste buds and start to prefer some bland crap over other bland crap.

Cyril gives him a funny look. “It’s touching.”

Toby looks at his tray and sees some of the white potato glop has spilled over the compartment ridge into the green bean mush. Toby smiles to himself. Suddenly O’Reily is sitting down next to his brother and tells him, “Stop playing with your fucking food.”

“But Ryan…” Cyril begins.

“There are kids dying in Africa. If you don’t eat this you’ll make them cry.” Ryan pauses and takes a second to consider Cyril. His face softens and when he speaks again he’s calm, more affectionate. “If you don’t eat now your stomach will hurt later. Just take a couple of bites.”

Cyril huffs and looks at his tray, yet doesn’t move. Toby puts down his fork and reaches over to take the one out of Cyril’s hand, only doing so after Cyril gives it up, curiously. Toby separates the touching food, scooping out the mixed pieces and putting them on his own tray until Cyril’s is all in order. He then wipes down the fork and hands it over. Cyril grins and begins eating. O’Reily doesn’t say thanks and Toby doesn’t look for it.

Any personal gratification on Toby’s part is short lived.

“Aw, would you look at that. Bitcher’s playing mommy to the retard. It’s a prag family reunion.”

Schillinger’s voice behind him is like acid to Toby’s peace of mind. He’s a constant reminder for Toby of falling down the rabbit hole on his way to rock bottom, with humiliation and degradation rife along the way. Of course hell on earth also uncovered a strength Toby never knew he had. One dead son of Schillinger’s is only the latest proof of that, no matter how badly Toby feels over it.

“Fuck off,” Chris retorts coldly, nodding his head but refusing to look over his shoulder.

“And take the dickless wonder with you,” O’Reily adds with a nod to Robson who is always one step behind the Aryan leader.

Toby looks over his shoulder and sees Schillinger dramatically play at being shocked, clutching his hand over his heart. “Such vile language.”

Rolling his eyes, Toby turns back to his food, silently willing Schillinger to move the fuck on. No such luck.

“Have you seen Bitcher’s kids?” Schillinger asks the question of Robson, offhandedly. “I can’t help but wonder if his daughter will take after her dear old mom…”

Toby tenses. His stomach twists unnaturally and he can feel bile rising up his esophagus. At the same time he can sense waves of restrained anger emanating from Chris.

“Of course, if she turns out to be anything like her dad—,”

Toby turns in his seat and returns Schillinger’s blistering stare. He fights to not leap up and punch the asshole smirk off the Nazi bastard’s face. In his peripheral vision he sees Chris is looking over his shoulder and watching the confrontation, but he’s not standing up and putting himself in the middle of the battle. Toby’s anger at Schillinger is slightly tempered by the rush of love he feels for Chris for knowing what he needs at this precise moment. It’s never been said out loud, doesn’t need to be—Chris has his back. At the same time he knows Toby can (and needs to) fight his own battles.

“They say our kids reflect who we are,” Toby says thoughtfully. “One of your sons was a junkie who’s now dead. The other is M.I.A.—looks like both your kids know you’re a goddamn waste of space.”

Schillinger takes a step closer and Toby squares his shoulders, bracing for whatever comes next, when Mineo’s voice interrupts them. “Move along. Now!”

Toby holds Schillinger’s gaze until he grimaces and stocks off with his brethren in tow. Turning back to his food, Toby continues eating, mindful that somehow Chris is even closer, his shoulder pressed against Toby’s. Taking a deep breath, Toby drifts his attention to the people around him.

Busmalis is still going over his letter and has Rebadow’s rapt attention—save for the concerned glance he casts Toby’s way. Cyril is eating his food with a hurt look and O’Reily is muttering obscenities under his breath one second and affirmations for his brother the next, offering a knowing glare at Toby over their mutual hate-on for the Aryan Brotherhood. Just over O’Reily’s shoulder, Toby spots Said watching him closely from the other table. Said nods his way and Toby gives him a muted smile.

“You don’t want to send that letter,” Chris announces and Toby snaps to attention. “No chick wants to read that. She’ll think we’re all a bunch of pussies.”

Before Busmalis can protest, Chris is leaning forward, reaching across Toby, to snatch the letter out of his hand. The angle of the movement means Chris is half turned towards Toby, body pressing into Toby’s space, forcing him back in his seat. As Chris slides back into place, confiscated letter in hand, he leans his head down—close to Toby’s—then scoots over in the opposite direction and begins giving his version of what the letter should sound like.

None of this is perfect. Not even close. This life (if one can call it that) is a collision of mismatched alliances, relentless vendettas, retribution masquerading as cold indifference, and calculated manipulations hiding that which the heart fears to chance. Yet it is in here where Toby first opened his eyes and felt he belonged to something; knew he had a place in this world. It may be a barbed wire kingdom, but it’s as much his as anyone else’s.

Regrets—he’s had a few. But one day the pendulum swung far in one direction and the cons lost ground. He’s learned to take each day as it comes.

Toby takes a final bite of food, pushes his tray away and rests his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together in front of his face and masks a smile as Chris continues to dissect the letter to Busmalis’ chagrin. Today? Today is a good day with regrets at a minimum and the faint hint of laughter dripping through the seams at the corners.

When he can’t take Busmalis’ hurt expression any longer, Toby swipes the letter from Chris and hands it over. “Save the dirty talk for someone who appreciates it,” he muses.

Chris, a suggestive glint in his eyes, grins in a way that always makes Toby’s dick twitch. “You have someone in mind?”

Toby stares back at him, holding his ground while being enraptured by Chris unapologetically not looking away no matter who’s watching (so unlike Toby who is always so aware of prying eyes); until O’Reily mutters, “Get a room,” and Toby’s cheeks burn.

Yes. Today is a fucking good day.  
 


End file.
